His Name is Triumph
by deityb
Summary: President Shin-Ra's death, from the eyes of his youngest son. T for pottymouth and such.


**I'll be completely honest. This fic frightens my very sanity. Not for angry-lil-Rufus, not for kickass-dedicated-Rufus, but, pardon my bounding ego, how perfectly I can write Palmer. I hate him. A lot. I mean.. A LOT, and he.. He.. See for yourself, duckies. x3x; T for Rufus being a potty-mouthed young man, and mentions of his private habits.**

**(An explanation is in order, by-the-way. The Rufus I write, through roleplaying and arting, had decorated his cell, er, I mean room, in red silk. The same colour that he would later use for his banners. /ramble**

**Annnd I have him a gay middle name. So sue me. Rufus Triumph Shin-Ra sounds nice, doncha think?)**

-x-

He was about three hours closer to suicide, he just knew it. The weekly walk (which had been postponed three days) lasted ten minutes shorter than usual, and it brought him back to an almost completely bare room. A quick, hasted search had revealed that absolutely _everything_ had been taken. From the sheets and draped to incriminating purple things, all the way down to every last notepad and pen he had kept for these four long years.

After rages and curses and demands to know 'who did it,' an unsatisfactory, bitter answer reared her ugly head. Father, on his visit a week ago, had found it all a bad environment for the would-be heir to the Shin-Ra 'throne'. Almost a scream of distaste resounded past him, his anger and hate and everything that had made this room his stomped to the chair beside the window and sat.

How _dare_ he? God damn it, how dare that blubbering, fat slob of an old man--!? As if the last four years of excruciating torture hadn't been enough.. Hadn't driven him mad enough.. This just put the cherry on the icing, didn't it? It was everything in his damn power not to spin about and shoot down every last one of the concerned onlookers at his door. If he were any other man, he would--

A startled blink of those icy eyes, ears receiving the sound of his last strictly personal effect chiming out an 8-bit of Beethoven's Ninth. He dug the phone from his coat, flipping it open and pressing it to his ear, "What...?" A cool hiss, the cracks in his throat from the absence of speech and the roars of just a moment ago hidden in one of the angriest tones he had ever sported.

"He-hey! Vice President--!" An irritatingly familiar response caused a noticeable little twitch in Rufus' left cheek. Palmer, Director of Space Exploration. Who the hell had given him this number..?

"Not the time, Palmer." Rufus grumbled, moving to take the phone from his ear and shut it off. Next thing he knew, Heidegger and Scarlet would be ringing in for personal chats, too..

"He-hey! Wait a second--! Sir--!" Palmer's tone was petrified, as if he were wetting himself in fear, even as he spoke frantically to a number he shouldn't have. Rufus' lip curled in disgust, but, nonetheless, he brought the phone back to his ear, anyway.

"What?"

"We need you in Midgar--! It's URGENT, and--" Rufus cut him off with a derisive snort, full amusement shaking him from that pinprick of sanity he kept strong.

"Me? You lot need _me? _What ever happened to wasting my days in Junon? Where's father's grand plan to kill me off from lack of sanity? W--"

"He-hey, sir--! Listen!" Palmer broke in, voice shakier, still, "The President's dead! Sephiroth--..."

Whatever was said next had no mark on Rufus' mind. Dead. The President, dead. Everything he had ever--..

"Is there a chopper on the way?" Rufus asked, cool tone suppressing his excitement.

"U-uhm.. it should be there--!" Palmer responded, "He-hey, listen. Is there any way that our stunning, young, rich new President could fund my dep--"

Rufus flicked the phone shut and pocketed it before standing. A moment to bask in the light of a new era that seemed to flood him, before stalking out of the room, past the befuddled onlookers, and down the hallway and stairs to the new-awaiting life ahead.

He found his middle name completely fitting for his mood, for what seemed the first time in years.


End file.
